The Weeping Wolf
by dancewithdragons
Summary: A series of short ficlets revolving around Sansa Stark and her infinite demises. (Rated M)
1. Jon

When he first finds her she is covered in blood.

"You're late," she tries to tell him, overtaken with fear as red pours from her mouth. "Too late."

Her hair is chopped off, where it had once been so long. He can still see the remains of it, lifeless and dull by the fire, crisping away. It is only red now. She has cut away the brown curls that chained her, cut away the heart that fooled her and the gut that lied to her, knife stuck in her like some sick reminder.

"I can help you," he says, tears falling from his eyes now. "I'll make you better."

But he can't. He knows he can't. She knows he can't.

"You look like him," She coughs out, a masochistic smile on her lips now, and they both know she means their father- or rather the man he once thought his father. Her eyes search the room one last time and land on the fire, where her hair lay. "He loved my hair, he always loved my hair."

_He_. The man who promised her, the man who swore he'd take her home and keep her safe. "He's gone, Sansa." Her brother- who wasn't truly her brother in the end- tells her, but her eyes have already rolled back, white and haunting- for they surely will haunt his dreams. "He flew as mockingbirds should."

He knows she can't hear him, and before long her body turns red, everything turns red. It was always her color, he thinks, and now it is all she is, all anything is.

She used to believe in songs. She used to sing and dance and dream as young girls should, though no longer. Not after she'd been beaten, stripped, burned, torn, and broken most of all, broken as nobody should be.

But she died smiling yet, for that was all she ever wanted to do.

Smile.

* * *

Feel free to request pairings.


	2. Joffrey

It started with bells.

She came kicking and screaming into the world and bells rang as though an angel had arrived. Mayhaps that was what she was, the angel with no wings- for if she had wings she would have flown far away, so far away that no one could find her.

But they always found her and dragged her back- by the hair, by the leg, by the arm. Now, though, it is her turn to drag, and so she does. She fills her hand with his hair, so gold that it shames the brightest of suns, ignoring the crown that stabs through her hand as she does so.

"Release me!" He cries, clawing at her wrist until it bleeds.

She feels no pain, though, she stopped feeling pain long ago. "You could have saved him," she says calmly as she yanks his head back and smashes it onto the floor until it no longer looks like a head.

There is blood- a pool of blood, an ocean of blood- and she runs her fingers in the warmth of it, tasting the iron of it. Mayhaps she is mad now, but who cares? Certainly not she as her lips curve into a smile for the first time in years.

She could have saved him, but she killed him instead, as he had killed her father.

Screams sound all around her, but she hears nothing as the cool metal of a sword kisses her neck. It feels like home and she laughs- though it must not have sounded much a laugh as red spilled from every point of her body.

It ends with bells. Bells that ring for their lost king, a king who could have saved him. Her last thought is of their beautiful ringing before her body grows cold and limp.

_I do so love their sweet sound_, she thinks, feeling herself turn stiff and lifeless. _I do so love their sweet, sweet sound_.


	3. Sandor

He doesn't hear her call his name.

A hand grabs his shoulder and he is so drunk, so tired... Before he realizes what he's done, she's looking down at were his sword pierced through her belly.

Red becomes the color of her ivory gown and tears fall from eyes blue and grey alike. He can't tell if she's laughing or not as more blood crawls from her mouth and then her ears as her legs buckle underneath her and her head hits the cobblestone floor.

"You've ruined my dress," she whispers to him hoarsely, sparing one last crimson smile.

"Don't leave," he cries, falling to his knees and cradling her body in his arms. "Don't you leave me."

But she just stares at him with her big sapphire eyes. They are not the same now- they are dead and blank and dull. She was his little bird, but not all birds are meant to fly, he supposes.

She tried to follow him, he knows, she tried to chase after him and let him spirit her away like one of her pretty songs, but he had saved her in another way.

He leans down and kisses her lips, sobbing. Sobbing because she is dead, sobbing because he did it, but most of all sobbing because she looks so perfectly happy.

In the end, she did fly. She flew from the life that chained her and broke her, to the heavens above where her family was waiting for her, where he knew she would never be hurt again. He reaches his hand up, closes her eyes with his two fingers and caresses her smile with his bloodied thumb.

He didn't hear her call his name.


	4. Aegon

_Ice and fire should never mix_, everyone warned him, _ice and fire are enemies_. But he never listened. He never listens.

He rides into Westeros on the back of a dragon, cream and bronze and ivory. The Prince who was Promised, they call him, The True King, coming home with the True Queen. But it isn't his snowy headed aunt who entices him, it is the girl with fire for hair.

She is sitting in the empty throne room when they barge into the Red Keep, with a crown wrought of golden stags on her head. She just stares at them for the longest time before all the blue falls from her eyes and she drops to her knees, begging to be burned.

"Death by fire is the purest death," she chants over and over, a saying her lord husband had lived by when he was king, however briefly.

He denies her request, even as she screams for her fallen husband, The False King. _She had loved him_, he regards, _but he is no more and she is left a widow_.

Daenerys fumes when she learns of his intentions on marrying the girl who had once been the queen, Daenerys fumes when he truly forces the girl to marry him, Daenerys fumes until the day that she dies, locked in a cell by her king nephew.

He looks at his wife now, months later, remembering all of it as she screams for her king- not he, but the one before him. "Just push, Your Grace, just push," the Maester says to her, and soon enough the cries of a newborn fill the room.

"You did it, love," He praises to her, but she does not reply. She never replies again. A babe cries for its fallen mother, who cries for her fallen family in the abyss of the seven hells.

She dies the same way her aunt had; bringing forth a Targaryen child. The purest death, death by fire.


	5. Robb

They run as fast as they can, panting and sweating and screaming. "Sansa, Sansa!" They call, bursting through the double doors of the Red Keep. There is a rustling and a scream, and he looses an arrow.

And then he sees her, standing there with her hands folded in her lap. She is a beacon amongst dead bodies, sprawled around her. She opens her mouth to speak but a waterfall of red trickles from her lips and she spits out a clot. When he looks down, he sees it.

The arrow pierced her in the stomach, all the way through because she is so thin now, so weak. Her hands, clasped around the shaft, work to rip it from her- and when she succeeds, the blood goes everywhere, spraying like a fountain.

He runs to her, breathless with tears streaming down his cheeks. "No," He sobs as she falls to the ground, choking on her own gore. "I never meant... I came for you, I'm here. I never forgot you. I'm so sorry."

She reaches a hand up and gives him a bloody smile, red leaking into her hair and pooling around her on the floor. "Home," she says as she cups his cheek, voice strangled and thick.

They were the same; red haired and blue eyed and strong, though he failed her more than any other could, whereas she would have saved him- he knows it. "Home," he nods, caressing her face with his fingertips. "You're going home."

She dies by his hand, in his arms; his sister, his best friend. The one he became a King for. They were the last two wolves where there had once been five, but no longer.

He looks to the arrow that slayed her and collects it, inspecting it._ The lone wolf dies while the pack survives_, he recalls as he plunges the arrowhead into his heart. He will be no lone wolf.


End file.
